Dreams
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: Set in s6, Wilson has a bad dream and comes into House's room.


Wilson bit his lip, as he opened the door. House was asleep, as peaceful as he ever got, which, he supposed on the scale of things, wasn't particularly peaceful. House never slept well, he'd been an insomniac well before his leg, and the pain had only intensified the problem.

Wilson twitched a little, as he saw House move on the bed, turning his head, putting his hand over his eyes, and then finally raising his head, sitting up a little on his elbows. The light from the hall hit his face in a narrow strip, illuminating his insanely blue eyes, and catching the silver in his hair and scruff, as he asked, "Wilson?"

Wilson pushed the door all the way open, and padded into his friend's room, kneeling on the edge of the bed, his left knee pressing up against House's side. House was looking at him, incredible eyes confused and sleepy. Wilson tasted blood in his mouth–he'd chewed his lip too hard. But he... he had to...

He reached, and closed his hands around his friend's wrist, his fingers finding the pulse, finding the life within the warm body. House was staring at him now, still sleepy, but now more taken aback than confused.

Wilson shut his eyes, tight, closing his free hand hard in the fabric of House's nightshirt. He turned his head away from the searching gaze he knew was fixed on it, and leaned a little into House's side. He could feel his shoulders trembling, and his eyes burning hot with salty tears.

House's fingers brushed against his arm, he jumped a little, and let out an involuntary sound, a little whimper of distress. House's fingers wrapped around the wrist of Wilson's hand, the one that he was measuring House's own pulse with. Wilson let go as though House's touch burned him–and it did, in a way. He heard a little gasp escape his own mouth, as he withdrew his hand, and then House's voice, "Wilson?"

Wilson opened his eyes, wiping them against his sleeve, before looking at his friend. House looked...concerned. His eyebrows were drawn together, the creases in his forehead deepening with consternation, the corner of his mouth drawn down into a slight frown. Wilson took a shaky breath, and tried to calm himself, but... all that happened was another slight gasp of emotion.

He was crying freely now, shoulders shivering, hand shaking as it held House's shirt in a grip such as that of death. He turned his head sharpy at the thought, sobbing into his own shoulder, muffling the sounds. But House had heard them.

Wilson felt hands pulling on his arm, his shoulder. He let them pull him against his friend's body, led his head rest above his friend's heart, let his fingers close on the fabric above his friend's breathing chest. He closed his eyes, and cried. His right hand was still clenched in House's shirt sleeve.

He felt warmth being pulled up over him–House, tugging the blankets over them both. It wasn't cold, but Wilson didn't care. He shifted his weight, until he was practically lying on top of his friend, sobbing into the older man's chest. A hand awkwardly brushed through his hair, though its intent was probably just to pull his bangs out of the way so House could see his face.

He didn't care. It was the closest thing to a gesture of affection he'd received in months, and he took it. He took the hand that came to rest on his shoulder, and the arm that wrapped around his waist, pulling his weight into a more comfortable position for his friend.

He laid there, and took every breath, every heartbeat, every little tired twitch that came from his friend. He took everything that was there, and much that probably actually wasn't. He knew, for instance, that House was letting him be there because the older man didn't know what else to do. That the fingers that he let himself believe were trailing against his wrist were measuring his pulse, that the hand that rested on his back was measuring his shuddering respirations.

He didn't care. House was here, and alive, and letting him stay there, and he took that knowledge, letting himself hang onto those thoughts, letting himself believe that maybe he actually was loved.

Maybe House wasn't going anywhere.

Maybe his dreams were just dreams.

Maybe he could stay here forever, and never have to lose the person that he loved.

Maybe that dream could come true.


End file.
